


Nocens Luna Ortus

by Cluegirl



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does not tell people that he can hear the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocens Luna Ortus

He does not tell people that he can hear the Moon.

He knows what they would say, how their eyes would look. He does not need to hear the suggestions that he work a bit less, or try a potion to sleep better, or is there anything you'd like to talk about, dear boy.

No. He knows where the voice comes from, silken and sly across the back of his neck, raising hairs like a tide when he least expects it to come. He knows why It has begun to speak aloud to him -- the potion. That was never a factor before, but it is now. A thin, aggravating veil between the Moon and the Man. The Moon does not like it there. Not in the least.

He is not mad. He is not overworked.

He can hear the Moon.

It -- he won't let himself think of It as She, no matter the timbre or tone -- whispers to him mostly, a teasing little singsong, smug and proud with inevitability. 'I'm coming,' It hums, 'soon, soon, soon."

Sometimes, early in the cycle, he makes himself go out into the open, out into It's light to glare back at the peeking sliver. "You do not own me," he has heard himself say, voice shaking, (with cold, he tells himself, with cold!) "I will never belong to you!"

But his words never stop the maddening, idiot song. "Soon, soon, soon." He can ignore it usually -- focus on precision, control, detail and pace. Never any use running, so make each moment as it should be. Only sometimes does the chime rattle him unawares. Early on, his hands never shake.

But as the Earthshadow retreats, unveiling more and more of that bright, baleful face, the voice gets louder, comes more often to slither through the labyrinth of his earbones. Its song expands in volume, detail, adding chaotic, heartbreaking harmonies and dissonances that can rattle him breathless and leave him aching for release, or a place to hide.

It sings of beasts unbound, running savage and beautiful under primal, maddening light. It sings of the potion failing unexpectedly, releasing the fury from its chemical chains just when no one thinks to guard against it. It sings of the beast with throats in its jaws and blood on its muzzle as it stalks the halls of the school he calls his home.

His voice grows harsh to try and cover the sound. Sometimes it works, but alcohol always works better. Sometimes he gives in and drinks until his voice is just another slurred harmony echoing off the stone walls of his prison/cave. Not often to the bottle though -- the hangover makes Its song that much harder to ignore the next day.

Most people think the Moon is full for only one day -- the day when it can wrench a man out of his skin and crush him into a wolf's pelt. But most people are wrong. He hears Its voice for three days straight, lilting along, crushing barriers of purpose and deliberation, urging him to run free and fierce, and damn the petty, paper world to its proper hell. He has never heeded it but once, and that once marked him for the rest of his life. He regretted it immediately, and continues to do so to this day.

This day.

The middle day of the three.

The song It sings now is triumphant, and beyond words or threats. It is a howl of delight, pealing like a bell across his sinews: "Here! Now! Tonight! Tonight!"

Tonight.

Tonight he will lock himself in a cage of stone. He will bar the door with heavy spells, and block the tiny, grimy windows with whatever he can find. He will allow no chink where any glimpse of maddening silver could come in to find him, transfix him, bewitch him.

But he will still remove his clothing, and lock it away. He will still sit, coldly breathless as he waits for something that has never happened -- not once in twenty years.   
But he never heard the Moon before.   
And these things can take time to develop.   
And one cannot be certain, after all, because...  
Even after all these years, he cannot clearly remember just how close the Werewolf got.


End file.
